blushed warm approbation; at a worthy sentiment, she blushed heart-felt
sympathy. If you said a thing at the fire that might hurt some person at
the furthest window, she would blush for fear it should be overheard, and
cause pain.

In short, it was her peculiarity to blush readily for matters quite
outside herself, and to show the male observer (if any) the amazing
sensibility, apart from egotism, that sometimes adorns a young,
high-minded woman, not yet hardened by the world.

This young lady was Zoe Vizard, daughter of Harrington's father by a
Greek mother, who died when she was twelve years of age. Her mixed origin
showed itself curiously. In her figure and face she was all Greek, even
to her hand, which was molded divinely, but as long and large as befitted
her long, grand, antique arm; but her mind was Northern--not a grain of
Greek subtlety in it. Indeed, she would have made a poor hand at dark
deceit, with a transparent face and eloquent blood, that kept coursing
from her heart to her cheeks and back again, and painting her thoughts
upon her countenance.

Having installed herself, with feminine instinct, in a crimson couch that
framed her to perfection, Zoe Vizard was at work embroidering. She had
some flowers, and their leaves, lying near her on a little table, and,
with colored silks, chenille, etc., she imitated each flower and its leaf
very adroitly without a pattern. This was clever, and, indeed, rather a
rare talent; but she lowered her head over this work with a demure,
beaming complacency embroidery alone never yet excited without external
assistance. Accordingly, on a large stool, or little ottoman, at her
feet, but at a respectful distance, sat a young man, almost her match in
beauty, though in quite another style. In height about five feet ten,